


Corinthians 15:33

by navycrackle



Series: Verses [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Background Relationships, Catholic Guilt, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, F/M, Masturbation, Mentions of Previous Relationships, Multi, Sex, Violence, in the way that superheroes stalk people, minor stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6748960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navycrackle/pseuds/navycrackle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do not be deceived: "Bad company corrupts good morals."</p><p>Or, a street artist attracts some criminal attention and Matt figures she's as good a distraction as any. Perhaps too good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corinthians 15:33

_Be careful making wishes in the dark_  
_Can't be sure when they've hit their mark_  
_And besides in the meantime I'm just dreaming of tearing you apart_  
_I'm in the details with the devil_  
_So now the world can never get me on my level_  
_I just got to get you out of the cage_  
_I'm a young lover's rage_  
_Gonna need a spark to ignite_

  
_My songs know what you did in the dark_

\---

“I’m Daredevil.”

He heard Karen’s heart race and the uncomfortable swallow in her throat. Matt stood, unmoving, with his mask still in hand. The din of cars and buses and foot traffic swelled as he concentrated on her pattering heartbeat.

“Jesus,” She finally breathed after an eternity, “Is that why—I mean—shit.” Karen stumbled over her words, running a hand through her hair in a whisper.

“Karen.” And to his own ears, he sounded desperate beneath the quiet level of control.

“I need… I need to process everything that’s happened, including this—this revelation.” She spat out the word like a curse. Matt caught the scent of unshed tears and the waver in her voice. His hand dropped to his side, mask feeling heavy.

“Of course.” Matt pivoted, clearing the way for her to leave. She gathered her purse and coat, hesitating in front of him. He felt the air move as she reached out, felt her flushed and warm, but her hand hovered above his chest. Thinking better of it, Karen drew back and hurried out. Matt listened to the echoing click of her heels as she walked down the hall.

He didn’t have to ask her to keep his secret. She didn’t have to offer. He knew that, even if Karen refused to speak to him again, she would never breathe a word of his double life to anyone.

Matt listened to the cars and people outside as the snow fell, alone again.

\---

Normally, he’d be here with Foggy. Karen would have been a welcome addition to their traditional New Year’s Eve of Two Routine. He spent most of his blind years hating New Year’s Eve. It was entirely too loud, too intense. There were too many people, too many drinks, too many blaring speakers. The fireworks were all consuming. And he had always spent it alone. But then he met Foggy, who came home early from winter break to spend New Years with Matt their first year and having someone to focus on, having someone to distract him from all the stimuli made the holiday easier. No such luck this year.

Foggy had sent him a text simply stating he was Marci’s plus one to a black tie event. He hadn’t heard from Karen. Not even Claire. He would’ve stayed home, avoided the overwhelming mind-fuck that came with crowds, especially crowds on drunken holidays. But a lack of alcohol in his loft drew him to seek it elsewhere. Josie’s wasn’t as close as a liquor store, but he didn’t want to be _that_ guy.

(Matt was also self-aware enough to admit that stepping out of his apartment for the night was a bit self-flagellating.)

The usual suspects were all present. Tom Belkin, Clint Peterson, Rob Donohue, and the rest. Josie, one of the few constants in his life, sourly made drinks behind the scarred bar top. He ordered a Macallan (neat) and settled in. The clack of the cue ball carried from the back, above the drone of conversation and the keening of the jukebox. The hum of the neon lights threaded through like a baseline. The epoxy resin was almost worn down to the wood as he folded his arms on the bar.

“Here.” Josie set his drink in front of him.

“Thanks, Josie,” She was more irritable than usual, and he caught the telltale whiff of a musty adhesive bandage and nicotine, “Trying to quit again?” Josie scoffed.

“Mind your business, kid.” She wiped the counter with a damp rag and Matt smelled the gun oil trapped under her neatly clipped nails. Josie had cleaned and reloaded the shotgun she kept underneath the bar before opening. He had only heard her take it out once, months ago, when two patrons didn’t have the sense to take their disagreement outside.

Matt nodded with a half smile and raised the glass to his lips. He inhaled. _Sherry. Ripe raspberries. Quince paste on toasted wheat bread._ He sipped. _Oak._ _Fig jam_. _Furniture varnish on cherry wood._ The slight burn in the back of his throat was an old friend, the warmth spreading through him a balm. He almost sighed.

“Are you one of those assholes who wears sunglasses indoors?” A feminine voice asked sardonically from his right. Matt tilted his face in her general direction. He had caught her scent earlier when he took a seat at the bar. It was smoke and sweetness; a little less cigarettes and a little more campfire. Beneath that was the tang of paint. The bar stool she sat on creaked as she turned towards him. Her heartbeat was steady amidst the low buzz of activity in the dive.

“No. I’m just an asshole that’s blind.” Matt tapped his cane against the bar, the vibration feeling pleasant in his palm.

“Oh, fuck me.” He heard her drop her head in her hands and groan.

“Let me buy you dinner first.” The slick reply slipped out before he could think. It really was like riding a bicycle. Not that he had ever learned how to do that.

“I’m rolling my eyes.” Her dry response made him chuckle.

She was a nice distraction. He wanted to be surprised at how easily flirtation rolled off his tongue given his present circumstances, but it was simple to focus on her; her sweet smoky scent, her steady heartbeat, the husky timbre of her voice. He wondered how soft her skin might be.

“I haven’t heard you in here before.” He propped his chin on his palm, elbow resting on the counter.

“Maybe I just avoid you.” Her finger traced the mouth of her glass, ringing softly in his ears.

“Wise,” He conceded, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the tumbler. The surface was only slightly uneven; a flaw only detectable to him, “I’d avoid me too.” She snorted derisively.

“Damn, already at self-deprecating, huh?” Sipping his scotch, Matt smiled against the rim.

“I do my best.” The woman took a swig. He tasted the tequila in the air as it reached her lips. Silence lapsed between them.

“I’m avoiding my usual haunt. My ex works there.” She finally offered. Her heartbeat stayed even. _The truth_. Matt nodded.

“Fair.”

“What about you? All alone on New Year’s Eve?” She drawled, the barest trace of flirtation in her voice. He shrugged.

“It happens.”

Matt placed her in mid twenties. Educated, local, a painter of some kind. Likely attractive, if the elevated heart rates of the men (and some of the women) around her meant anything. He felt her staring at him openly, taking in every detail of his appearance. _Brazen_. _Rude_. He listened to her shift in her seat, thighs squeezing together as a different scent began to build. _Well, that’s certainly flattering._ It almost made him smile. _Confident._ He corrected.

“So,” She took another swallow, finishing her drink. Matt felt the air move as she hailed Josie for another tequila, “How well does the charming, self-deprecating, blind babe routine work?”

“You tell me,” He smiled, “You did call me a babe.”

“I’m not blind,” She responded breezily and without thought. Matt listened to her heartbeat jump as she realized her slipup but she held her ground and didn’t apologize. He could appreciate that. All the same, the woman quieted and focused on her drink. He tapped his finger against his glass, rhythmic and slow.

“Turn up the volume, Josie. The ball’s about to drop!” A woman’s voice called from the pool table. Josie groused, but acquiesced. The TV’s speakers strained against the weight of the cheering masses and the announcer’s too loud microphone.

“And here we are, live from Times Square as the countdown begins!” Matt recognized the male announcer’s voice. A TV personality with a childhood spent on a popular daytime soap, “Ten!”

The woman’s fingertips rapped against the bar in a sharp staccato. Her nails were short and smooth.

“Nine!”

Her breath hitched in her chest, pulse picking up.

“Eight!

He knew her tongue darted out to wet her lips before she worried the bottom one between her teeth.

“Seven!”

A long exhale, and then a swift gulp of tequila. The decisive sound of the empty glass being set on the bar, perhaps a little too hard.

“Six!”

The woman slid off her stool. Matt stilled.

“Five!”

She moved closer, her body heat heightened by the alcohol, thrumming against him. He controlled his breathing, keeping it measured and even. Her hair moved in a silky sigh over her shoulder as she ran a hand through it.

“You mind kissing me?”

“Four!”

“A strange woman in a dive bar? I dunno…”

“Three!”

“A strange woman in a dive bar trying not to think about her ex. On New Year’s.” It was nice to know they sought a mutual distraction.

“Two!”

Her heartbeat was loud in his ears, an excited (or nervous) rhythm that pulsed even in her fingertips.

“Fair.” He murmured, head dipping to meet her half way.

“One!”

Her lips were soft, her mouth warm. The woman’s hand met his chest and she curled her fingers into his shirt. He inhaled and she licked the sharp edges of his teeth. Matt could taste the grain alcohol and agave blend of cheap tequila on her tongue. Heat coiled low in his belly and he felt himself twitch. She leaned back and he chased her mouth. Nipping at his bottom lip, she slowly pushed him back.

“Happy New Year!” The announcer declared with good spirits. The sentiment resonated around the bar. Glasses clinked, sloppy hugs and kisses exchanged among the drunker (and friendlier) patrons. The Times Square crowds cheered through the speakers.

“Not bad, asshole.” Her arousal invaded his senses. Her heartbeat steadily quickened, her scent touched by musk. Her taste clung to his tongue.

“Right back at ‘cha.” Feeling bold, he gently swiped her lower lip with his thumb. She smiled against it and it felt nice.

“Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year.” Matt echoed. She stepped back, her fingers unfurling, and her hand leaving his chest. He felt strangely weightless, untethered almost.

“Later.” The woman said. He gave a nod as she pulled on a jacket (leather by the smell of it, and well loved) and pushed the stool out of her way. He listened to her heartbeat slip past him and out the door. Matt turned back to face the bar and finished his scotch.

“I’ll have another one, Josie.”

He stayed for a fourth before excusing himself. The alcohol pleasantly dulled his senses. Not enough to put him at risk, but enough to quell the sensory overload from the drunken crowds that still milled the streets and avenues. Cops also strolled along, bundled up against the cold. Matt passed a couple passionately kissing behind a dumpster. The sounds of them tugging at clothes and ripping open a condom followed him to the entrance of his building. He shook his head, and tried to find other distractions to focus on. The stairs seemed to stretch endlessly as he trudged up several flights. He could’ve taken the elevator, but the lurching always made him feel drunker than he was and usually induced the spins when he had reached the four-drink threshold. Matt fumbled with his keys at the door.

Behind him, his neighbor poked her head out and squinted.

“Hello, Fran,” He said without turning around, “Happy New Year.” Fran shut the door without replying. It made him chuckle humorlessly. He stepped in and locked the door behind him. Tossing his cane aside, Matt ditched his coat and pulled his clothes off as he shuffled into the bedroom. His glasses went to the nightstand. He kicked his jeans away and rooted around for a pair of his sleeping pants. The mattress was firm beneath him as he flopped down, silk sheets cool against his heated skin.

Although he already knew the answer, he checked for missed calls or texts.

“You have no new messages.” The stilted female voice said from his phone. Matt hummed a response and plugged it in to charge. He pushed away thoughts of Foggy and Karen and Claire, and what their nights had been like. Instead, he centered himself on the lingering hint of tequila and the woman’s natural taste on his lips, remaining even after the scotch. Matt figured, if he tried, he could find her again. He could search the city for her heartbeat, dive through all the smells to track down her smoky sweet essence. Just another task to throw himself into, to keep his mind busy from thinking about his friends. Or maybe former friends; he wasn’t sure. He was too afraid to ask and he didn’t want to disappoint himself.

Maybe he should just suck it up and get a dog. At least then someone would be happy to see him. He rolled over with a huff. No. No dog. It would be cruel to leave it cooped up in his place while he was off bloodying his knuckles in dark alleys and creaking warehouses.

He could almost hear Elektra’s scornful chuckle, her voice smooth like an eighteen-year scotch. _Matthew_. He could imagine her clearly, more clearly than he wanted to. _Ever soft hearted._ Scrubbing his face with one hand, Matt sought out the white noises of the city and let them drown Elektra out until he drifted away.

\---

“Seven a.m. Seven a.m. Seven a.m.” The alarm chirped, drawing Matt from a fitful sleep. He reached out to silence the clock before curling back under the blankets. The cold had seeped through his loft and into his bones. Blankets bunched around him, he huddled deeper into the warmth. New Year’s Day. Most places would be closed. There wasn’t exactly a practice for him to return to. He didn’t know what he was going to do for work. It didn’t really matter. Work, friends, lovers; the life of Matt Murdock was becoming less and less important. It made him wonder who was the man and who was the mask. (He knew how corny the sentiment was, but it still applied.)

He felt stiff, muscles protesting when he shifted. Matt wanted a hot shower and black coffee. He’d forgotten to set up the automatic drip the night before. Groaning, he struggled out of bed, dragging the blankets with him. The icy floor pricked at his bare feet as he flicked on the thermostat. On mornings like this, making coffee was pure muscle memory. (In fact, he could probably do it in his sleep, if he was ever inclined to sleepwalking.) He did his best one handed as he tried to contain the warmth by clutching the edges of blankets to his chest. He wasn’t hungover, but he felt a little fuzzy. Having set up the coffee machine to dispense liquid caffeine, Matt shuffled to the bathroom.

Foggy had picked up some shaggy bathroom mats for him at Ikea when he first moved to the loft. They provided a little relief against the cold floors while he turned the hot water on. Matt abandoned the blankets and stripped off his clothes to duck into the shower as quickly as possible. There weren’t any bath products that were truly scentless but he had settled on one brand that wasn’t particularly offensive. He let the steady stream of hot water pound against his back. The bruises were bone deep and he knew they would take longer to fade, even with meditation. Lathering his hair, he heard Fran come out of her apartment with a basket of laundry in her arms. The elevator hummed beneath the onslaught of the showerhead. Matt tried to recall the last time he did laundry.

The promise of coffee forced him out of the shower sooner than he wanted. He shuffled back to his room with a steaming mug, tossing the blankets on the bed, and bundling up in a soft shirt, thick socks, and sweats. Matt flopped down on the couch. There was no point in going over cases when there wasn’t a firm anymore. His fridge was stocked, more or less. It was strange to suddenly have so much free time. Punching criminals didn’t exactly pay the big bucks. (Actually, it didn’t pay anything at all.) Matt sipped his coffee and considered his finances. Then, he remembered Elektra’s deposit. The money had sat in the business account for Nelson and Murdock, mostly untouched. Karen may have used some to pay the electric bill, but he couldn’t remember if she had ever mentioned it.

Matt retrieved his phone and called the bank’s automated service. It confirmed that the money was still in the account. When the computerized voice asked if he would like to make a withdrawal, he hung up. He couldn’t—he _wouldn’t_ touch the money. There was enough in his savings to scrape by for a little while. Matt knew Elektra would disagree, goad him even into taking the money. _I’m dead, Matthew; what use do I have for money?_ Her memory all but whispered in his brain. Matt drank deeply from the mug, allowing the coffee to burn his tongue. Elektra evaporated from immediate thought as he hissed, his hypersensitive taste buds raging. He needed to find a better way to occupy himself. Matt heard Fran leave her apartment again to move her clothes into the dryer. _There’s always laundry._

The laundering process didn’t eat up as much of his day as he wanted. Matt had put on an audio book he barely paid attention to and tidied up the apartment, but that didn’t last long either. He wasn’t home enough to do much damage. So he changed the sheets, made the bed, took out the trash; anything else he could think of. He washed his mug and the coffee pot in the sink, and made a sandwich for lunch. Turkey, lettuce, tomato, mayo, and mustard on brown bread. He ignored the hard avocado in the fridge, leaving it in the crisper. Matt wondered if Foggy had a good New Year’s with Marci. He checked his phone again.

“You have no new messages.”

Donning a heavy coat, he laced up his sneakers and shouldered his gym bag. It had been a while. Matt pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and locked the door behind him, cane in hand. If nothing else, he could pass a couple hours at Fogwell’s. The cold always dimmed the smells of the city and stung his face. There weren’t too many people out and it was easy for him to avoid the ones that were. A few blocks over, a couple argued about infidelity and misleading texts. As he passed below a cracked window, guilty cigarette smoke drifted over his head. The crunch of snow sounded like glass in a garbage disposal. He cut through the streets quickly and was relieved to find Fogwell’s empty.

He ran his fingers along his dad’s poster as he walked by.

“Hey, dad.” Matt dropped his bag to shrug off his coat, folding it in half and draping it over the ropes of the boxing ring. He unzipped the bag and dug out his wraps. The material, worn and familiar, moved deftly between his fingers. (Another muscle memory for him.) Setting his glasses on the edge of the ring, Matt bounced on the balls of his feet. He rolled his shoulders back and took to the bag. The first snap of his fist against the old vinyl felt good. His mind went pleasantly blank as he focused on his breathing and the vibrations in his knuckles.

\---

It was risky to be out on the street so late but she just _had_ to get this piece out before morning. A few days before, she had picked an empty alleyway grubby enough to be ignored at night but wide enough to showcase her work when the sunlight hit. Olivia’s breath came out in white puffs as she crossed the street to the alley. There were a few splintering wooden crates tossed haphazardly against the dumpster. She stacked the two most stable looking ones and crouched down to open her backpack. The Punisher trial and all surrounding violence and terror made her brain spin with new concepts for her to flesh out and paint. In the end, she chose to go with something simple until time permitted her to do something more complex.

Olivia traded her black bandana for her half face respirator, adjusting the strap over her hood. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Taking out cans of spray paint in black and white, she got to work. The boxes groaned beneath her feet, the hiss of the aerosol cutting through the air. At the slightest sound, she stopped with her ear strained in the direction of the noise. The adrenaline kept her hyper vigilant and productive. Olivia was blessed enough to elude the cops in her time as a street artist; she wasn’t interested in fucking up her track record any time soon. Cold nipped at her eyelids and the familiar ache settled into her fingers from pressing the nozzles.

A not so distant _CRACK_ echoed from deeper into the alley. Olivia paused in her final touches. Voices bounced off the bricks, words indiscernible, followed by a heavy blow. Her filtered breathing was suddenly too loud. The part of her that formed her most basic instincts, the part that grew up right in the fire of Hell’s Kitchen, screamed for her to finish and get home. _Keep your head down and eyes straight ahead._ Another bang reverberated against the walls and straight into her skull as she hurried to finish. A smaller, more coaxing part—the part that drove her to the streets at the night to paint statements—suggested an opportunity. _It could be a fight. It could be the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen._ She stepped off the crates, signing her work at the lower right corner.

Olivia never had any run-ins with Daredevil, formerly known as The Man in the Black Mask. Tallulah had when a couple Irish gang members tried to intimidate her into forking over protection money for her food truck. When he was still the Black Mask, he swept in all fists and fury with promises that no one would bother her again. That was the first instance that really drew him into her sights. He had been a peripheral flicker before, a spark that a bullet would snuff out sooner or later whether it was the cops or any of the criminals he bloodied. But when he directly affected the life of someone she knew, someone she cared about, she decided he was worth keeping tabs on. She followed mentions of him, both in the papers and on the streets. From what she gathered, he never bothered any taggers or crews. Graffiti and vandalism didn’t seem to be high on his list of priorities. But she saw how he was slowly changing the community and she could (grudgingly) admit that he made people feel safer.

Her first piece about him was simply a long, foreboding silhouette painted on the sidewalk as it stretched out from the mouth of a narrow alley. It didn’t garner too much attention, but Black Mask enthusiasts and graffiti connoisseurs noticed. She wasn’t the only one to depict him on concrete either. Ropez, the Tom Tom Cru, and Vhexx featured him in their throwies and burners, all incredibly talented with something to say. Some depicted him as a savior, others as just another jackass fucking up the neighborhood. But no matter what opinion you had of him, it only added to his notoriety.

Olivia stuffed the cans of paint, the gloves, and her mask back into her bag. Zipping up and shouldering it, she pulled her bandana back up over her nose and mouth. Another crack ricocheted through the air. She bounced on the balls of her feet. Olivia looked over her shoulder to the open street and back down the alley. Her heartbeat ticked up, but curiosity won out. Gripping the straps of her backpack, she made her way deeper into the dark. The odor of dumpsters and back door refuse clung to the black fabric and made her eyes water. Blinking furiously, she listened for the fight and turned down a winding back street.

There, in the light of an electronic billboard, she saw three men towering over one. _Shit._ Olivia sidled up to a dumpster, briefly wondering if she was about to see the death of the Devil. The tallest of the men pulled him up by his collar and under the pink and blue light of a birth control ad, she saw that it wasn’t Daredevil. It was just a man in a rumpled suit, blood pouring from his severely broken nose and a cut above his eye. Olivia couldn’t make out the words exchanged between the men but she made out the glint of a gun. The tall man pressed the barrel to the bleeding man’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

Growing up on one of the shittier blocks of Hell’s Kitchen, she used to play “gunshot, car backfiring, or fire crackers” with her friends. She got pretty good at it. It still didn’t prepare her for the close range _POP_ and the sight of a man’s brains splattering against a brick wall. Olivia broke out in a cold sweat and tried to step back for a quiet get away. (Key word being _tried_.) Instead, she tripped and crashed into a pile of trash, banging her elbow and making as much noise as possible to alert the men of her presence. For one sickening moment, Olivia stared at them from her awkward position amongst bags of garbage and they stared back at her. The billboard illuminated their faces clearly, scorching them into her mind.

“Fuck.”

Olivia scrabbled to her feet and took off, the men’s footfalls pounding on the cement behind her. She couldn’t go back the way she came. The street by her painting was too open; there was nowhere to hide. _If I can just lose them in the alleyways…_ The thought was desperate, cut short by the men’s voices barking in a language she couldn’t recognize. At least not while running for her life. Olivia cut a corner and vaulted over a trashcan, pushing it over beneath her. The men cursed behind her as they tripped over the mess, still too close for comfort. She skidded into a narrow side street with cars parked illegally against the buildings. At the end was a dumpster and a chain link fence. _If I can make it over, they won’t catch me._

Lungs burning, she tic tac’d off the wall to the top of the dumpster and leapt forward. Her fingers hooked into the chain links and she scrambled to scale the rest of the fence. The tall man took a running jump and grabbed her ankle. He pushed off the fence, trying to yank her down. Olivia gritted her teeth as the knitted wires cut into her fingers. She kicked down with her free foot, but the man’s weight brought them both down in a jumbled heap. As his companions caught up, the man picked her up by the front of her hoodie and slammed her back into the wet concrete. Whatever air was left in her lungs escaped in a painful rush. Spots danced before her eyes as the cans dug into her shoulders. Something in her bag snapped.

“Not so fast, _kotele_.” The man sneered as he loomed over her face; his pale blue eyes alight with promises of violence.

\---

A scream a block away rose above the drone of the city. Matt took off from his perch above Hell’s Kitchen. The night had been relatively quiet. He caught a car thief on 9th and West 43rd earlier and stopped a mugging near the Lincoln tunnel. He observed a couple taggers but as they weren’t defacing any storefronts, he left them alone. Generally, people were still recovering from their New Year’s festivities. (The keyword being _generally_.) It was a woman’s voice, drawing him to a tight side street with three additional heartbeats. Two men held down her arms and legs while a larger one squatted beside her.

“Get the _fuck_ off me!” Her angry tone was slightly muffled; something was in front of her mouth, then the rip of fabric. Matt chucked one of his billy clubs from the rooftop, striking the man holding her feet in the back of the head. He leapt to the fire escape across the way and swung down, deftly landing on his feet.

“Let her go.”

“Shit! It’s that fucking guy!” Said the man holding her arms. Matt rolled his eyes beneath the mask. The large man pulled a knife from his boot and burst towards him. Matt dodged his slashes, landing a few blows to his solar plexus and kidneys. The impact rippled up his arm. The woman took the opportunity to rock, swinging her legs over her head to wrap them around her captor’s neck. She somersaulted them over, popping up to slam her foot down on his throat. Matt caught the man’s knife arm in a lock and delivered a swift knee to his gut. He shoved him into a wall in time to turn and catch the guy he struck from hitting him back with his own club. The woman hopped up on the dumpster. Matt snapped his right fist forward and the man blocked, kicking him squarely in the chest. She jumped onto the chain link fence with a huff. Catching the man’s ankle, Matt ripped the club from his hand and brought it down on the man’s knee with a resounding crack. The man screamed.

The woman’s hood fell back and a smoky sweet scent cut through the blood and grit. Matt whipped his head around as she reached the top and tilted her upper body over the rail, flipping over. She landed with a practiced roll and took off running, her heartbeat pounding. A heartbeat he recognized.

The pipe to the back of his knees brought him to back to his current predicament and he cursed himself for getting distracted. A steel-toed boot hit Matt in the stomach once, twice, three times before he swept the tall man off his feet. The other one, barely recovered from the foot to his throat, picked up the steel pipe. Matt twisted, angling his body so the blow glanced off his armor. He unleashed a furious combination of punches and strikes, taking hits like penance. The pipe clattered to the side. The man lowered his head like a bull and rushed him, slamming him into a wall. The tall man with the knife bolted.

Matt smashed his elbow down on his assailant’s collarbone, snapping it like a Kit-Kat bar. The man howled, dropping him to stumble back. Matt grabbed the back of his head and brought it down as he jerked his knee up once, twice, three times until Broken Collarbone was unconscious. He whipped around to throw his other club at Shattered Knee, knocking the revolver out of his hand where he sat propped up against the dumpster. He marched forward, ignoring the man’s curses, and gripped him by his hair.

“Why did you attack that woman?” His words came out in a raspy growl.

“Fuck off.” The man spat. Matt cracked his head against the dumpster.

“I don’t like asking the same question twice. Don’t make me break your other knee.” When he didn’t answer, Matt applied a heavy foot to the injured knee and ground down. The man gritted his teeth against a scream before it ripped past his lips.

“She saw us!” He yowled, “The bitch fucking saw us!”

 _Shit._ Matt thought. _And that other one got away._ He took his foot off.

“Should’ve stuck her right away.” He muttered under his breath and if Matt weren’t who he was, he wouldn’t have heard it. But he _was_ who he was and he did hear it. Matt brought his fist down with terrible force, clocking him right in the temple and into the side of the dumpster. Shattered Knee slumped over, done for the night.

Breathing hard, Matt rolled his shoulders back. He had to find her. She wasn’t safe so long as that other man was in the wind, and he didn’t know what she had seen. Taking zip-ties from a compartment in his suit, he knelt down to secure the man’s ankles and rolled him over to put his hands behind his back. Repeating the process with Broken Collarbone, Matt left them propped up against the dumpster, hunched together. He had to get them to the police station for Brett.

\---

Olivia didn’t stop running until she’d jammed the keys into her apartment door and ducked inside. Locking up, she tossed her backpack on the couch. Her lungs burned and her muscles screamed, but she was wired, electric from the adrenaline. Forcing herself to take slow, even breaths, Olivia shook out her hands to stop the trembling. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of cold water from the filter in the fridge. She drank deeply. Looking at the cup, she could see flecks of dried blood from her fingers sticking to the glass. Both her palms were scraped but the cuts on her fingers stopped bleeding. The glass went in the sink before she stripped off the hoodie and retrieved her first aid kit. She cleaned her hands and applied Neosporin before wrapping her cuts in Band-Aids. The shoes and pants came off after and she pushed up the sleeves of her Henley to see the beginnings of a bruise on her elbow. Flopping on the couch, she stared up at the ceiling.

Her heart still hammered but the fear was gone. It was replaced with exhilaration. The thrill ran through her like a shiver and she released a shaky breath that stuttered into a giggle. It bubbled up, overflowing like expensive champagne. Olivia laughed, limbs still quaking. She almost died, probably. At the very least almost raped and/or seriously injured. The rush of escaping (with some much needed assistance) made her feel manic. It felt good. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t get a stern phone call from her abuela in the morning but then again, her luck was never that great.

\---

Matt returned to the narrow alley. He inhaled through his nose, separating smells, searching for traces of help. The fabric that was ripped from her mouth was still there, caught at the bottom of the chain link fence. He pulled off a glove and stooped to pick it up. _Cotton_. Rough to his fingertips but worn and pliable. It was likely soft against her skin. _Square. Probably a bandana._ Matt brought it closer to his face. _Sweat. Fear. Thai food for dinner. Spray paint._ He breathed in deeply. _Smoke. An almost fruity sweetness. White euphoric notes. Summer evenings._

It was enough to find her.

He took to the roofs and followed the scent over the chain link fence and through the side streets and alleys. It twisted around streetlights and corner stores, cut across a small park, and wound past a van with three parking tickets to a six story mid-rise. The building to the right was seven stories, separated by a narrow strip of asphalt, and offering the best vantage point. Matt focused; tracking what story she was on. _Sixth floor._ He paused and listened for her heartbeat. _Second unit from the left corner, facing the alley._ There she was. She was still awake, lying on her couch. He faintly tasted copper and anti-biotic cream. She was injured in some fashion, but not in need of immediate medical attention.

Matt knew it was close to four in the morning. Sunrise wasn’t for another three hours and some change. He’d keep an ear to the city from his roost until then. He mulled over the likelihood of the tall man being able to find her. As far as he knew, he didn’t know anything about her except what she looked like. Depending on his resources, it could take anywhere from a day to weeks for the man to track her down. With how aggressive he’d been with that knife, Matt didn’t expect him to just disappear and hope she never went to the police. _Would she go to the police though?_ Even with Fisk in prison and most of his dirty cops exposed, there could be more that avoided detection or ones that were in someone else’s pocket. _If she spoke to the wrong cop…_

Most of the people he saved were frozen in terror and stuck around to offer a wobbly thank you. This woman had taken his arrival as an opportunity to escape, and not clumsily either. Her movements had been confident, strong. That sort of confidence took practice and real world application. He thought she was brazen at Josie’s with the way she looked at him openly, appreciatively. He would’ve gone home with her if she asked. She hadn’t, but he still ended up at her place albeit for a different purpose. Matt tilted his head as she rose from the couch and padded into her kitchen. She opened the freezer and stared inside for a few moments before closing it. She repeated the process with the fridge. The woman shuffled to her bed, turning off lights. The springs squeaked slightly as she got under the covers.

He heard her toss and turn for a comfortable position. It takes the average person seven minutes to fall asleep. Her restlessness went on for almost an hour. He’d have to approach her at some point, ask what she saw and if she knew those men. He’d have to tell her the potential danger she was still in, that one of them had escaped and knew her face. But for the early hours in the morning, he just listened to her breathing.

Matt collapsed into his own bed as the sun was coming up. He made it home under the cover of the remaining darkness. The man didn’t turn up to her apartment with a KA-BAR on his belt or with a squad of gun toting buddies. She was safe, for now. He unplugged his alarm but only managed a few hours of sleep. If he dreamt of silk hair between his fingers and the mat of the boxing ring against his back, he didn’t remember when he woke. After cold coffee and buttered toast, he shrugged on his coat and slung his gym bag over his back. Mid-way through his trek to Fogwell’s, a small group distracted him. Several people were crowded at the mouth of an alley. The snippets of conversation and a familiar smell of spray paint made him slow down. He stopped by a man. _Drywall dust. Wood shavings. The vinyl booth of that diner on 10 th._

“Sorry, but what’s the commotion about?” He inquired politely. The man sighed noisily with a frustrated turn, but his annoyed retort died on his lips when he saw Matt’s cane. He cleared his throat uncomfortably while Matt cocked his head to the side.

“It’s, uh, it’s some graffiti. From some vandalizer.” He nodded and the man awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. A camera shutter clicked raucously close to his ear.

“It’s called a throwie and they’re _artists_.” A second voice corrected, a young man Matt placed in his late teens or very early twenties. His breath was sweet from a holiday themed coffee drink. The camera snapped again, rapid fire. “Marcus Troy. I run a blog documenting the artist’s work. Do you want me to describe it to you?”

“Please.” He bobbed his head, hands resting atop his cane.

“It’s a white skull. The eyes are the justice scales; the dowel and base make the nose.”

“Thanks,” Matt replied, his mouth dry, “That’s quite the statement.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Terminology
> 
> \- crew: alternatively krew or cru, a group of associated graffiti artists who work together  
> \- tag: a stylized signature, normally done in one color; the most common form of graffiti  
> \- throwie: also known as a throw-up, sits between a tag and a burner in terms of complexity and time investment; generally consists of one color outline and one layer of fill-color  
> \- burner: a large, more elaborate type of piece  
> \- tagger/writer: a graffiti artist  
> \- tic tac: a parkour technique, often used to gain height by jumping from one wall to another, to clear objects and to allow quick redirection of momentum


End file.
